


Synaesthesia

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, Self-Harm, Synesthesia, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sherlock Holmes, certain things hold association with colours, in a way that he himself deems another reason he is a 'freak'. John, however, does not agree with that hypothesis.</p><p>A series of stories/situations, each tied to a different colour or set of colours. Because I can. Beware triggers later on, and eventual johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yellow

_Aeneous, Amber, Apricot, Monoazo yellow, Aureate, Aurora, Banana, Beige, Blonde, Brandy, Brass, Brimstone, Buff, Cadmium yellow, Canary, Champagne, Chartreuse, Chrome yellow, Chrysos, Citreous, Citrine, Aureolin aka Cobalt yellow, Cream, Croceate, Dandelion, Dawn, Ecru, Fawn, Flavescent, Flax, Fulvous, Gamboge, Gold, Goldenrod, Gooseberry, Hansa yellow, Harvest gold, Helioxanthin, Honey, Icterine, Icteritious, Isabelline, Jasmine, Jonquil, Khaki, Lemon, Lemon chiffon, Lime, Lion, Luteolous, Luteous, Lutescent, Madder, Maize, Marigold, Melichrous, Meline, Mikado yellow, Mimosa, Mustard, Nankeen, Naples yellow, Nasturtium, Navajo white, Ochre, Old gold, Old lace, Orellin, Orpiment, Peach, Primrose, Quercitron, Quinoline yellow, Rajah, Rutilant, Saffron, Sallow, School bus yellow, Selective yellow, Stil de grain yellow, Stramineous, Straw, Sulphur, Sunflower yellow, Sunglow, Sunrise, Sunset, Tawny, Titanium yellow, Topaz, Turmeric, Urobilin aka Urochrome, Vanilla, Vitellary, Wheat, White wine, Xanthous._  
  
Or, as it is more commonly known, yellow.  
  
Colours hold certain implications in Sherlock’s mind, memories that they bring up and words they are associated with. The multitude of different names for the shades strikes him as inefficient, wasteful. Why should there be so many names for something that is essentially the same when most people just use ‘yellow’ and are done with it?  
  
According to what Sherlock has gathered over the years, yellow is supposed to be a happy colour, symbolic, and certainly positive. He thinks that for him, that is different, and sometimes that it is because he is wired wrong.  
  
Yellow is the taste of the air after a case has finished, when adrenaline has leaked into his veins and it feels almost as if he is on fire, incandescent, spectacular as no one else is. He is unique, indeed, and yet the yellowing taste in the air after a case is not something he would mention to anyone. Not any more.  
  
He used to tell mummy about the colours, and she thought it was just another of his little quirks, but others were not as accommodating. He learnt, over the years, that people do not like differences between him and them. He was never quite meant to have a heart or feelings anyway, was he?  
  
~~~  
  
There had been a case. God, he had thought it beautiful in a way that only he could find corpses and brutal death beautiful, with the twisted and fascinating outcomes that he could pick out from details. Not a serial killer, shame, but it was close enough. There had been a body strung up from the chandelier of an ancient house with fishing twine.  
  
The twine had been old, stored in the light for too long, and had become brittle. But still, it held the body up, if just barely. Post mortem slits had been made down his inner thighs, and a mask placed over his face. There was just a little blood on it, wiped off, as if that part had been an accident.  
  
John... had not thought it so beautiful as Sherlock had. He was both a soldier and a doctor, so he was not in any way squeamish, so it’s not that. Sherlock had wondered what the problem was, though a few moments later he had become far too engrossed in examining the corpse to worry about his trusty companion. Even if John didn’t like it, he would be there.  
  
~~~  
  
Now, they were both back in the flat, if only barely. Sherlock shrugs off his coat and hung it up, always careful when it came to the coat, far more than he seemed to be when handling things other’s considered precious. Hearts. In both a metaphorical and literal sense.  
  
The taste of yellow is in the air now, and Sherlock can still feel the thrill of the chase in his veins, almost like the drugs he had given up years ago. He would not call it happiness, all the same, he would call it obsession, fixation, winning. It was the taste of victory that no one else knew of, because they were all so blind as to live in a world without such colours. At least, that was rather how he felt in that moment.  
  
He heard a soft chuckle from behind him, letting his head snap round to catch sight of John shaking his head slightly.  
  
“What?” It is a demand, just a fraction defensive, as Sherlock has a tendency to become when people laugh at him. No one laughs at him like that, at least not any more. Not really.  
  
John shook his head again, glancing up to meet Sherlock’s gaze, his expression still a little amused. Surprisingly, for Sherlock, that is... fine. He doesn’t mind that John finds something about him amusing.  
  
“You’re a bloody madman, you know that?” the man said, and Sherlock’s expression darkens for a moment.  
  
What was meant by that? People didn’t want to be around madmen, at least that had been true right up until John came along and spun Sherlock’s idea of normal off kilter. John knew he was a madman, must have done for a long time now, why was he doing it now? Had he just realised that he shouldn’t be here at all? Sherlock had never told him, after all, for fear that he might actually listen and end up going.  
  
“Hey, hey,” John is saying, and Sherlock’s attention snaps back to him once more. Ah. He saw the change in expression, then. “Not like that. You’re wholesale insane because no one, or at least no one who isn’t actually a murderer, should be so happy after going to a crime scene like that.”  
  
“I solved it,” Sherlock said after a moment, a small frown still colouring his expression. “That’s why it’s brilliant.”  
  
“Bloody Hell,” John breathed, daring to shift a little closer to his flatmate. “You don’t really get it, do you?”  
  
“Did you expect me to?” He hoped not. He hoped John knew he was different in that respect too.  
  
There was another laugh from John, a shake of the head, and a smile that Sherlock could only categorise as adoring. “Never. I can’t imagine quite what it’s like in your head after cases, you know.”  
  
Of course he couldn’t. Sherlock would not wish that upon him in any case, but there was another little detail that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.  
  
“Yellow,” he answers, turning away and heading towards the kitchen.  
  
John’s brows furrow briefly, and he repeats, “Yellow?” He doesn’t understand. Does he want to? Sherlock wonders, pausing by the table. “Your head confuses me, Sherlock.”  
  
Surprise. Acceptance. Acceptance from John? Perhaps it is not knowing acceptance quite yet, but he hopes that it will grow to be. _Oh John_ , he thinks, _you have no idea how precious you have become to me._


	2. Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for mentions of drug use.

_Achromatic, Anthracite, Atramentous, Atroceruleous, Atrous, Bistre, Black bean, Black leather jacket, Black olive, Café noir aka black coffee, Carbon black (also known as acetylene black, channel black, furnace black, lamp black or thermal black), Charcoal, Charleston green, Ceylanite, Coal, Corbeau, Damson, Dusky, Ebeneous, Ebony, Fuliginous, Gloomy, Graphite, Ink, Jet, Licorice, Mars black, Melanoid, Murrey, Nigrescent, Nigrine, Obsidian, Onyx, Outer space, Piceous, Prune, Raven, Sable, Slate, Sloe, Smoky black, Sombre, Sooty, Stygian, Taupe._  
  
Shades of black.   
  
Sherlock thinks, that this is entirely pointless. There ought not be so many names for this particular colour, or more accurately, an absence of colour. It is black, and anything lighter out to just be grey, but human beings do have such a way of overcomplicating things. It’s hateful.  
  
Even so, he believes that ‘black moods’ are aptly named. At least, they are for him, though he is unsure whether that is just because he is so much more potent that the general populace. When he is in that kind of mood, where the world seems hopeless and everyone is being entirely dull, and God, why can’t someone just die in an interesting way so that he has something to do, that feels like the colour black.  
  
More specifically, it feels like black soot coating the inside of his veins, making it’s slow way up and into his brain where is slowly suffocates all that he is. The only part of himself that he cares about.  
  
It is as if the blackness of that mood taints his entire perception of the world, of right and wrong, and if feels like tar coating every inch of his skin.  
  
It tastes like charcoal black, as much as he hates the distinction at times like these, thick and acrid on his tongue. Does it make it sharper? It seems that way, or at least it appears to be true, considering the way other people react when he speaks to them. There are more cutting remarks than usual, snide deductions and an increase in that compulsive need of his to push people’s buttons.  
  
As time goes on and the mood does not dissipate, Sherlock is sure that that same black soot spreads out from his veins, leaks away through his sharp words and irritated actions, coating the rest of the world. And then it’s far harder to get rid of.  
  
It is not a normal way to think, he is quite sure. Then again, he knows that nothing about his mind is normal, and this is just another part of that. He is a freak in every sense of the word, and the nickname still seems justified to him. Too often, perhaps. Even when others tell him that he is not, it seems too distant. He would know if they were lying to him, and yet they cannot be telling the truth either.  
  
~~~  
  
John can tell when Sherlock’s in one of those moods, of course. Anyone who couldn’t tell would have to actually be deaf, blind, and stupid. Or possibly a corpse. Well, considering Sherlock’s last friend, that wouldn’t be entirely out of the question, would it?  
  
Now, the famed consulting detective is sulking on the sofa like a five year old, curled up tightly with his silk dressing gown pulled tightly around him. It would be possible to think he was sleeping, he supposed, if it wasn’t for the way his fingers drummed irritably against his own ribs. Sherlock finds that the rhythmic vibrations are, if not calming or in any way comforting, a small distraction.  
  
He can hear John. John must be across the room from him, he can hear the turning of pages in the paper, and they seem too loud to be reasonable. Awful. Like bees that have taken up residence in his brain, then invented some sort of drill and were trying to get out again. Sherlock was half sure that was not a simile that most people would have used, but then again he had never really seen the point of the more traditional ones. They were all so dull.  
  
That was the problem. Dull. The world is dull, grey, soot-coated and whoever invented it ought to be shot. Or just possibly, strangled and left in a river so that Sherlock could get a little more entertainment out of it.  
  
It is always as times like this, when his mind turns back to the drugs. He’s been clean for years of course, John knows only a little about it and Lestrade wouldn’t let him take cases if he was using. But thinking about it isn’t a crime.  
  
Cocaine would be so perfect right now. Cocaine stopped the world being tinged back by the merit of Sherlock’s own psyche, it was the white queen with needles for fingers and euphoria for a crown, her arms always so falsely welcoming until she dragged her victims down. He wouldn’t fall though, he was stronger than that, better than the rest of them. He could withstand the allure of his white queen and be, as someone had once put it, a functioning addict.  
  
The world would not be so dull if he let himself go back to addiction. But... then there is John. With an addict for a sister, he was quite sure that the man would be less than accommodating when it came to such habits. Not to mention the fact he was a doctor. Sherlock is careful, he always has been, he used fresh needles every time and he would do now too.  
  
But he won’t go back to that pale queen, however tempting her skeletal arms might be. There is just the small problem, that in moments like this, blackness clouds that idea a little and it seems far more plausible.  
  
He is drawn from his reverie by the scrape of a chair, which makes him scowl, and the movement of feet across the floor. He tries to ignore it for a moment that feels too long but is actually a mere few seconds, before giving up.  
  
“Shut up,” he snaps, tone harsh and with an edge of genuine annoyance. John shifts his weight a little, and though Sherlock cannot see his expression he can imagine one of slight surprise on the other’s face.  
  
There is a moment of silence, John deciding what to do, it seems. “You thinking?” he finally asks, and it is all Sherlock can do to stop himself hitting something.  
  
He is not sure why the statement angers him so. Perhaps it is just the fact that he feels as if he ought to be thinking, wants to be thinking, and dear God, how can John be so stupid as to think that he even has something interesting to think about? John knows he has no case, that much is obvious, so why does the man insist on asking such idiotic questions that he knows the answer to already?  
  
Sherlock shifts abruptly, sitting up and glaring at the other man, who looks... unperturbed. Is he really so used to it already? In that moment it seems rather unimportant to Sherlock whether he is or not, he is too irate at the idiocy of the entire world to care.  
  
“No, John,” he starts, tone venomous, fully intending on telling John all the reasons why the world is an awful place that ought to be razed to the ground. “I have nothing to think about and I feel as if my mind has coated itself in black tar, except it’s hot and burning and slowly eating away at every rational instinct I have, destroying my mind and covering the world in the same substance, until nothing is right or good or interesting, and I can’t even tell if there is anything interesting any more because it’s all fucking buried, and I feel as if I’m going to suffocate in the blackness. Do you have any idea how awful it is to have your mind try to destroy you? No, of course not, you’re an idiot and cannot possibly comprehend what it is like.”  
  
He huffs, could have said more, could have gone on but it feels like the blackness is stealing words from his mind now. John just looks at him for a moment, expression a little darker, until he finally goes towards the door. Annoyed. Angry? Probably. Sherlock can’t bring himself to care.  
  
“Yeah, Sherlock,” he says as he picks up his coat. “No idea at all. Sure. I need some air.”  
  
Sherlock wondered, for a moment, what he had done wrong. Perhaps he underestimated John’s ability to understand? Of course, he wouldn’t, not about all of it. But perhaps some parts.  
  
He hates making mistakes, but it seems that one has just occurred.


	3. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for eating disorders. 
> 
> I think my ideas in this chapter might be hopelessly disorganised and all over the place, but that's hoe my brain spews things out sometimes. Therefore, hoping for the best.

_Amazon, Ao, Apple green, Aquamarine, Army green, Asparagus, Aventurine, Avocado, Beryl, Bice green, Bitter lemon, Blue green, Bottle green, British racing green, Brunswick green, Cal Poly Pomona green, Camouflage green, Castleton green, Celadon, Chartreuse, Chlorochrous, Chlorophyll, Chrysoprase, Citron, Cobalt green, Cold, Corbeau, Cyan, Dartmouth green, Eau-de-nil, Electric green, Emerald, Feldgrau, Fern, Forest, Gooseberry, Harlequin, Honeydew, Hooker’s green, Hunter green, India green, Islamic green, Jade, Jungle green, Kelly green, Laurel green, Lawn green, Lime, Limerick, Lincoln green, Loden, Lovat, Magic mint, Malachite, Mantis, Midnight green aka Eagle green, Midori, Mint, Moss, Myrtle, Neon green, Nyanza, Office green, Olivaceous, Olive, Pakistan green, Paris green, Patina, Pavonated, Pear, Peridot, Persian green, Phthalocyanine Green, Pine, Pistachio, Porraceous, Prasinous, Reseda, Rifle green, Sage, Sap, Seafoam, Sea green, Serpentine, Shamrock green aka Irish green, Skobeloff, Smaragdine, Spring green, Swamp green, Tea green, Teal, Tilleul, Tuly, Turquoise, Verdaille, Verdant, Verdigris, Verditer, Vert, Virescent, Viridian, Zinnober._  
  
Too many shades of green for comfort.  
  
Green is viewed as a positive colour by most, and yet that is not the case for Sherlock. Green is synonymous with shame, although it is a feeling he avoids most of the time, earlier in his life that was not as easy.  
  
It manifests as the very distinct, almost acrid taste in the air around him, as a tint to his world that he is sure others ought to be able to see, sometimes. But then he remembers that other’s are not like him, they cannot see shame as a green shade hovering in the air, they cannot taste the way it makes him feel. He wonders, if he tried to explain it, whether he would be able to at all.  
  
How is one supposed to explain the taste of a colour, when it does not taste exactly like anything he can think of that is actually green? There is another reason that it is easier to keep the experience to himself, tell no one, and avoid all those irritating questions that he is certain would come if they knew.  
  
It’s simply more practical this way. Besides, there is no reason to give anyone more of a reason to label him as a ‘freak’.  
  
~~~  
  
He remembers the occasion on which it was most potent too clearly even now. He has tried to delete it before, and yet memories with strong emotions attached are far more difficult to delete. In some cases, so difficult that he never manages it.  
  
Mother had always liked her social events, even if Sherlock had hated them and Mycroft just seemed to be in it for the food. At least, that was how it was when he was younger, but on this occasion he was eighteen and very reluctant to spend much time there.  
  
He had been starving. Quite literally, in fact, as that had been the point at the time and there were reasons behind that which he never wanted to go into with anyone, not again, there was no point really. His mother knew what he liked all the same, and in his state of nutrient deprivation food had become so much more appealing, and at the same time so very much more terrifying.  
  
He ate too much, he had been able to feel it even as he was doing so, that reminder in his head of ‘you don’t want to be eating’ seeming far quieter in such circumstances. He had eaten too much, enough that he felt physically ill, though was unsure at the time whether that was more because of the psychological aspect, or an actual physical sensation.  
  
Either way, shame had been foremost in his mind at that moment, the taste and sight of it the only thing on his mind, pushing everything else to the periphery in a way that could have been uncomfortable, if he had not been so very preoccupied already.  
  
He had left the room as soon as he was able, taken the stairs two at a time and locked himself in the bathroom that had been a hiding place when he was still a small child. No one had come looking for him, and at the time he wondered whether they even cared enough to do so.  
  
Sherlock had stayed there for an hour, shame curdling in the air and near suffocating him, so strong was the idea.  
  
He had stared at the toilet the entire time, wishing he had the courage to get rid of the mess in his stomach. He knew the theory, wanted to, just on the off-chance that it would make him feel better in some small way.  
  
When he had returned to his dingy London flat the same evening, it was as if the traces of his shame were still clinging to him, making it impossible for him to forget. For the first time in years, he wondered whether someone would ever save him.  
  
~~~  
  
Sherlock glanced up from the dinner of Chinese takeaway, away from his reveries about the colours green and shame that could stem from an action that most considered so base, so very simple. So much harder for him than it seemed to be for others.  
  
“Not hungry?” John asked, though there was a slight tone of concern there. Ah, John. Always the doctor after all, making sure that things are as they should be. Except, when it came to Sherlock, he himself thought that ‘as it should be’ was rather relative, and not a good measurement for him. Nothing about him was as it should be.  
  
What to answer John was a rather more difficult question. Yes, of course he was hungry, but he was sure that it he ate much more at the moment that shame would return, just as it had done many years ago. Of course, he had been perfectly alright for years, but he had bad days. He was under the impression that everyone did.  
  
A moment passed before he shook his head, pushing the plate away from himself a little and leaning back in his chair instead. Already, he was sure that John was looking at how much he had eaten before giving up, judging, making decisions... all the things that he knew could bring on the feeling of ‘too much’ and ‘I ought have stopped sooner’.  
  
“You need to eat more,” John continued, causing Sherlock to stiffen a little, though his pale eyes stayed fixed on his doctor, his soldier. Was he really thinking in such possessive terms already? “You’re skinny enough as it is, Sherlock, what with all the chasing lunatics across London.”  
  
Sherlock sighs, looking away briefly, though more out of exasperation than anything else. It’s not something that he wants to discuss, not with John, not now, not ever. At the sigh, John glances up, a frown colouring his expression. He can’t know that it was an issue, can he? No.  
  
“I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock defends before John can say any more. “Not hungry, fine. I eat. You should stop going on about it.”  
  
He stands a little too quickly, chair rocking on two legs before righting itself again. A want to get away from the situation is all too present in his mind at that moment, because otherwise John will ask more and the conversation will escalate beyond where he wants to allow it to go.  
  
This time, John is the one to sigh, and Sherlock knows that is he turns he will see a look of disappointment. The one John wears when he knows something is wrong but he doesn’t want to push too hard, because Sherlock can be liable to snap. Rubber under tension, backlash, undesirable effects. The look he wears when he wants to help but Sherlock is the one stopping him. Of course, the detective firmly believes that no help is necessary, but it is the principle that counts.  
  
Why does John’s disappointment in him conjure shame just as much as eating more would have? That makes no sense, it’s awful. Is this what attachment feels like? He wouldn’t know, it’s not his area.  
  
“I can’t,” Sherlock finally adds, before sweeping from the room with the taste of green shame oppressive on his tongue, curls of that colour forming in his mind. He wonders what he meant, briefly. He couldn’t accept the help? He couldn’t eat more? _He couldn’t let John so close lest either of them get hurt_?


End file.
